


Shall I Compare Thee

by zjofierose



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), M/M, Oral Sex, Sleepy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-31 19:35:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose





	Shall I Compare Thee

**Title** : Shall I Compare Thee  
 **Prompt(s) used** : _broken A/C leads to lethargy even during intimate relations_ (written for [](http://sherlockmas.livejournal.com/profile)[**sherlockmas**](http://sherlockmas.livejournal.com/) )  
 **Rating** : NC-17  
 **Word count:** ~1600  
 **Warnings** : explicit sex  
 **Notes/Acknowledgments** : Many, many thanks to the always magnificent [](http://emmessann.livejournal.com/profile)[ **emmessann**](http://emmessann.livejournal.com/) , beta extraordinaire. Also to [](http://medea-fic.livejournal.com/profile)[**medea_fic**](http://medea-fic.livejournal.com/) , who listens to me whine, and the ever-so-lovely [](http://lousy-science.livejournal.com/profile)[**lousy_science**](http://lousy-science.livejournal.com/) for the brit pick. I did play a little fast and loose with the prompt, just because I don’t know anyone in the UK w/ AC, but… hope it fits the spirit of the prompt, if not the letter of it.

 

I wake sticky, sweat gluing the translucent skin of my upper arm to the side of my rib cage, heat from the smaller body beside me prompting trickles of dampness that moisten the hair at the nape of my neck. I roll to my back, eyes still closed, flattening my scapulae to the mattress as I draw breath into the bottom of my lungs, inhaling the taste of dust and heat over the ridge of my tongue, pulling the available oxygen molecules to kiss my hungry alveoli.  
   
Shuffling, a yawn, the shift of the mattress under body weight.  
   
 _John_.  
   
I roll without hesitation, whole body curling toward him; flower to sun, moth to flame, O to H2, etc. It never fails to amaze me, this autonomic reflex, this gyroscopic recalibration of my body to whatever space he is currently occupying. It’s been months; seventy-two days, a handful of hours. Such a short time, and yet all the time in the world. Eras have risen and fallen in the time my body has tuned to his, vast climes have swarmed into being and hurtled into extinction in the millennia I have spent mapping his skin to the pads of my fingers, imprinting his scent onto the surface of my brain.  
   
He moves, an unconscious attempt to reconcile the over-heatedness of his body with his ingrained desire for closeness, one hand reaching out for me, even as the other pushes the sheet down and away.  
   
It is hot. Stifling, here under the eaves. Heat rises, and bodies radiate their own precious warmth, off-cooling to maintain optimal conditions, a scientific fact evidenced by the salt sweet trails dried to glistening across John’s chest.  
   
I bend my head, lick across his half-flexed arm, sink myself into the thrust of taste upon my tongue. He tastes like wind, like hot summer sky, like ozone and lanoline and iron and that indefinable, ineffable combination of _hormone/pheromone/genetics_ that is simply _John_ , simply _mine_.  
   
He turns, forgoing the pretense at cooling off, and shoves his nose against my eye-socket, murmuring incomprehensible reassurances under his breath.  
   
If I could write a love sonnet to John, it would be simply this- the slide of my tongue across his throat, the touch of my hand to his aching side, the breath of my body exhaled for him to breathe.  
   
He’s not awake yet, not really, the rise of his chest still slow and even, heart thudding sluggishly beneath his muscle and bone. I lick again, eyes closing in bliss as I take the taste of him into me. I would consume him, if I could, I would devour him just to possess him, to know him entire and fuse him with my own body, joined indelibly, flesh to flesh, bone to bone.  
   
Plunder my way across his skin to the curve of his shoulder, eyes so close that I can see the pores of every translucent hair. The parabolic arc of his clavicle fits the convex curve of my cheekbone to perfection. If I were given to superstition, I would undoubtedly claim this as proof of our destiny together, of the universe’s pre-conceived creation of one animated set of biological tissues for the sole purpose of their encounter with a completely discrete set of other biological tissues, after a set space of elapsed linear time. I admit the idea is appealing; that this space on John’s body is not simply a result of evolutionary happenstance, but rather designed to the specifications of my skull, that the particular length of my palm is not due to environment or heredity, but engineered in order to more exactly cradle the crown of John’s head in my hand.  
   
It is irrelevant, however- what matters is this; the intoxicating scent of his breath, the rise of his nipple in the warmth of my mouth, the rumble in his chest as he begins to wake.  
   
I shove my face into his armpit, holding my head still. Breathe him in, tip of my nose pressed against his skin. No exhale; I have been reliably informed that it tickles. I imagine the small particles of skin, of scent, as I breathe them into my nose, the aphrodisiac of John’s very being working its inevitable effect on my own body. He is waking now, over-heated and sleepy, so I back up slightly, giving him room to move and sprawl, a scatter of limbs on the bed. Turn onto my stomach, enlarging cock pressed against the mattress and waiting as I bring my mouth to the base of John’s sternum, moving my mouth against his skin, repetitive patterns of silent noise. There’s a dip here, a small concavity in the center of his chest which holds 2mm of liquid, if he holds completely still. He does not, not long enough for more precise measurement.  
   
I can feel his smile in his belly as I descend diagonally to the bottom edge of his external oblique, the muscles in his face pulling ever so slightly at the skin on his abdomen as they move. My lips are pressing information into his side, words imprinted into skin, bone, blood. _Ich denke dein, wenn mir der Sonne schimmer, Vom Meere strahlt._ His body responds to my presence, warming, turning, undeniable force of attraction pulling my mouth to his skin, twisting his hip to rest between my teeth. I press, lightly, then harder, incisors pricking and marking this articulate curve. A rush of breath from his mouth, a sound, a hand on my thigh and a pull, gravity and applied physics combining to lay me on my side, head between his thighs.  
   
Bliss.  
   
The heat is omnipresent, and we are caught in suspension-every motion slow and deliberate. My mouth murmurs down the hidden crease of his hip, moving in counterpart to his hand as it curls itself around my reaching flesh and pulls. Words into his thigh, a telegraph of sentiment, Morse code of serotonin and dopamine reaction. He smiles, presses his mouth to my knee. I have no secrets from him, no matter how many languages obscure the mouthed confessions that his skin drags from me.  
   
Terrifying.  
   
 _Glorious_.  
   
( _i like to feel the spine of your body and its bones, and the trembling-firm-smoothness and which i will again and again and again kiss_ )  
   
Primitive hind brain instincts surface when I am saturated with the scent of John, my opened mouth moving of its own accord to latch and suck, tongue curling to create suction. Motion hardwired into every mammal at a brain-deep level; eyes closing, fingers pressing. This is not only survival, this is pleasure- this is being fed, this is pleasing our mate, this is stimulating pair bonding, relieving stress, encouraging endorphins. This is biological love, the exchange of mouths and hands on rising flesh, the millennia-old pull of rounded lips on proffered appendage.  
   
Pressure at my own risen flesh, a wet heat that forces my hips forward and my knees back.  John’s arm hooks behind my knees, hauling me inescapably against him. He brooks no argument, never does, not when he’s invested in the result. A burst of muscle tension shivers up my spine, twitching my toes and clutching my fingers into the firm plumpness of John’s thighs. The taste on my tongue is magnificent, primeval- salt of oceans, salt of dirt, salt of blood. John is the moon, and my blood rises to his pull; I am the sea, swayed to follow in his courses, reaching highest when he turns his brightest face to me.  
   
My breath is rattling, eyes closed, my fingers embedded in the muscled curve of his behind . I can feel the vibrations of his groan around my flesh, feel his hands wandering, one to push my knees open, the other to grasp my balls in his hands. Gasp as he tugs, thrusting instinctively forward.  
   
I’ve never had this before, this exceptional normality- all others left me hollow, trapped untouchable behind my walls of skin and bone. With John, he’s already splayed me open and pulled my beating heart from behind my cracked sternum to hold in his surgeon’s hands. Anything else is just a formality.  
   
An enjoyable formality, nonetheless- he licks a pattern, and I can’t help but moan, pushing my head further down to nose into his sac as I swallow. It’s beyond description, the sensation as he stiffens and shudders, his thighs clamping inexorably around my skull as he comes down my throat. It’s sensory overload of the best kind; the sound of his pulse in my ears, the taste of his fluids in my mouth. It pushes me over into my own small death, muscles seizing rapturously, body dancing in the oldest stretch there is. Everything explodes in silence, my mouth falling open with a gasp and my spine straightening to clench, then release as I fall back to the sheets with a sigh.  
   
A space of breaths, the clock ticking harmlessly on the nightstand. A chuckle, then he pushes me over, settling my feet on my pillow as he smiles down the length of his torso at me. His face is flushed and beautiful, even as he moves so that we are no longer touching. He smiles, then grimaces as a bead of sweat moves into his eye.  
   
 _“Further experimentation to wait until the heat breaks, yeah?”_  
   
I chuckle, pass an arm across my eyes.  
   
 _“Yes.”_  
 


End file.
